I Am Not a Drunkard Formerly Heavenly Bodies
by Alice Hunt
Summary: HP MM slash. More coming soon. Please R and R!


Heavenly Bodies

Harry Potter M/M Slash fic...about who? You'll find out.

Don't own, don't sue.

I am not a drunkard; absinthe makes the heart grow fonder. I'm a hopeless romantic, not an alcoholic. Addictions are for the weak. I'm not weak.

I hate seeing you at night. Your face lights up like a goddamn pinball machine against that black nothingness of the sky. The stars themselves seem to form a spontaneous halo about your head of neon blush. They glisten and glower at me as if I was encroaching upon some holy alliance they had formed with you. My presence amongst such glints of immaculate light was obviously unwelcome only to me it seemed. But I sit and stare down these miniscule heavenly bodies of delight as I hear you speak. Your speech is unintelligible to me and falls upon hopeless ears.

Cold is all I can think about. I'm so cold. Cold, cold and I want to be warm. I stare at you as your lips move in your speech. You say something that sounds vaguely like a lyric from an Ozzie Osborne song and I light another cigarette. I suck in the smoke and blow it out with a hiss. Suck hiss, suck hiss. You hate it when I smoke. You always complain that I only seem to smoke when you're around. I guess because it's mostly true. Mostly.

I ease myself backwards, lolling onto a stiff bed of deadened grass. Deadened. I lay there staring into the air, pondering that concept. I play with the word in my head as I mechanically breathe in the tobacco and tar and breathe out the noxious fumes. I become heady with smoke rings and thoughts of death. Painless death. Excruciating death. Pleasant death. I come to the simple conclusion that death is sexy. Erotic, even. Do I _want_ to die? Want is out of the question. Need is more like it.

I grind the life from my cigarette on the sole of my shoe and throw it aside. I realize you've grown quiet. I look to you with a question on my face. You don't see it as you stare at the sky. I draw a ragged breath and sigh into the silence of our world. I hate it when you're quiet. I squirm restlessly. I need to get laid. My mind wanders to thoughts of sex, as it does so often. Sex with boys, sex with girls. People tell me I'm a slut. I don't like to look at it that way. Slut: such a negative word. I prefer the term multi sexual-opportunist. Much more politically correct.

I find myself wishing you weren't here. Maybe if you weren't I could jerk off. Maybe I could anyway. I adjust my belt buckle almost absent-mindedly. I look at you again curious to see if you're paying me the slightest attention. You appear to be lost in your own, perfect little world. Goddamn you. I sigh again but this time I make it more obvious. Loud and obvious. Like you. You glance over at me with one eyebrow arched and that quizzical half-smile of yours. I hate what you do to me.

I want to touch you. I need to. You almost look as if you're daring me too: gazing at me with your eyes half open and lips parted. I shiver, from cold or lust, I can't tell. I stare at you in silence. You grin at me like a shit-eating pig. I tear my eyes from yours and glare up at nothing. You push your body up close to mine. I hate you all the more. Your fingertips feel like ants as they crawl up my thigh. Light, supple ants, come to devour my hard-on. Jesus, your fingers are like magic. I sit up abruptly, disturbing the peace and coziness of my imaginary situation.

"You're drunk."

You smile as you say it. No, not a smile: a leer. A wanton accusation. You want me to admit it. To be at your mercy. Ha.

I stand up calmly and feel for my cigarettes. I come up with an empty pack. I swear in a muted tone. I look back at you. You lie there, smiling sneeringly up at me, eyeing the half of a hard-on I have left. I continue my composed stance while I furiously debate with myself; caught up in a conflict between my brain and my cock. In the end my head won, regrettably. Without explanation, I begin to saunter across the decomposing grass, making my way to the street. You watch me, confused I guess, and struggle to stand. You follow after me but I ignore you, trying my damnedest to suppress the urges of my sinister lower half. I reach my car(A/N: Yeah, I know... a car..mugles stuff and what not..be patient with me) and get inside, fumbling for a brief moment with the handle, (which always stuck) then leave you baffled and indignant.

You demoralized me. Tonight was meant to be somewhat of a divine occurrence. And here I am; void of cigarettes, a useless remnant of a stiff cock, and lacking the enlightenment I came for...

I knew what came next: abandonment. Sure enough, you left me, rectifying nothing and confirming everything. All my fears had come full-circle. I had this coming. The last few months were the best, however obscured by the recurring thoughts I had of your betrayal. They were simply wonderful. They more than made up for what had been happening and I was more than willing to forgive and forget. I knew it wouldn't be that simple for you. No, nothing is ever simple when it comes to you. You're always changing my life. You'd jump from explanation to explanation like stepping stones. I suppose that's all I was to you: a stone. You abused me like one; as if I had no feelings. As if I was an inanimate object, susceptible to your daily berating of my soul. And yet... some days you were everything. You were the reason I woke up in the morning. Some days you still are. Some.

I hate you secretly. In secret I imagine your pain; excruciating and endless. Secretly I laughed at you. Wishing the most cruel and malicious things upon you and your goddamned happiness. But now, I am left confused and unsatisfied. Why, I wonder. Why was it so easy to cast me aside? Were you deceitful from the beginning? Did my unwavering love and acceptance of you mean nothing? I only craved to reap what I sewed. Yet, you never returned the feelings. No matter how much I screamed, cried, or begged you still did not budge. I grew restless and fearful...

I know what I did was seemingly horrific and untrustworthy. But that's why I confessed it to you. I just knew you'd understand and forgive me with open arms because that's what you had led me to believe with all your beautifully crafted lies of friendship. _That's what friends do, _I lied to myself. _They forgive you no matter what if you're honest. He'll still be there when you wake up. He promised_. I suppose promises were meant to be broken. At least, that's what you always said. I never wanted to believe it; I'm a hopeless romantic, remember? Even as I sit here, helplessly gulping down this sour, twisted poison I know I don't have a problem. No, I'm not a drunkard. I'm helpless. I'm confused, I'm hurt beyond belief, and I'm sorry. I've repented on what I've done. It wasn't that terrible of a crime.

_I'm not weak_... I have to remind myself this every time I see you. I don't crave sympathy. I don't want any pity. You were right to be angry. But to abandon me was to kill me. Or at least, the biggest part of me. The part of me that changed for you. That became good and trusting (at last) and forgiving. That human part of me. The part that finally trusted in someone besides my self. You brutally massacred that part. I trusted you. Does that mean nothing to you? You are solely responsible for creating this good person I had tried so hard to be for so long. And in turn, you're solely responsible for the death of that part. I made some big mistakes and there's no denying that. But the night I committed the unspeakable sins, I came and confessed them unto you. I knew you would forgive me in time... but I died instead. The closeness I felt with you is hard to come by in these demonic days.


End file.
